Tales From the Grid
by The Magic Pocket Turtle
Summary: Half of a joint 50-Theme Tron challenge. If you haven't seen Tron Legacy, there might be some spoilers. Current Theme: #15- Book: Clu receives a gift from Kevin.
1. Smile

**Author's Notes:** My friend and I are doing a 50 Theme challenge for Tron- I do odds, she does evens. I have no idea where she's posting hers, though.

* * *

It was his favorite weapon. Better than a cane, better than a gun, he always had it with him, and with it, he was a master of disarmament. It was hard to take someone seriously when their face was perpetually split by a grin. It caused people to underestimate him. Well, most people. Clu was a noticeable exception. "You're like a Cheshire Cat," He'd said disdainfully. "And I don't trust your smile."

Maybe that was the reason he switched sides. He made a living off of people's trust, he prided himself on his ability to gain it, keep it, and justify it. Suddenly, it seemed like that would be the thing to kill him. With Flynn on the run, and the ISO's destroyed, it was a new world, and there was only one man whose trust he needed.

Nonetheless, he never dropped the smile. It was his favorite shield. Better than a force field, better than an ID disc, he always had it with him, and with it, he was a master of deception. It was hard not to like someone when they maintained such a cheerful grin. It let people underestimate him.

Or so he hoped.


	2. Aid

"You have to help us."

Sometimes, he remembered their faces.

"We have to do something."

Not much different that his own, or than any program's, or users, actually. Two eyes, one nose, a mouth, like any other.

"Clu is going to kill all of them!"

And yet... Different. He couldn't explain it- He was never particularly close to Flynn, but he had heard him in passing, and the way the user spoke about them... Well, it was enough to make even Zuse believe in miracles.

"Please, Zuse."

They hadn't needed all the begging, the grand explanations, speeches, the pleas for his help. He had been a lot softer then- he had believed in the users. When he was Zuse, all he needed was a word from Flynn, and he would have followed him into the abyss. He would have needed less than that.

As an interpreter program, he'd spent time with the ISO's, teaching them the language, building communication. He wasn't the only one, but he liked to believe he was one of the best. They were innocent. Young. He would have done anything to protect them then.

But the war was harder than they expected. He, among others, had perhaps put too much faith in the users. It seemed even they could only do so much. Those days at the end of the war were the most hazardous. Zuse began to regret being at the forefront of the revolution- it made him too great a target. Even now, when he was Castor, the name of Zuse was enough to spark hope in the hearts of programs- the last war hero, the only one they could reach.

Castor wanted nothing more to do with Zuse. If he could, he would have de-rezzed his once-self and gone on with his life. But to save himself, he'd had to pass himself off as his own brother- a descendant of the same programmer. Not that Clu believed him- not for a second. Castor lived with the threat of Zuse's so-called crimes looming over his head. He couldn't risk helping the revolution anymore- nowadays, he had to watch his own hide.

He no longer had faith in the users, but those who did still came to him, hoping, desperately hoping, for an audience with the mighty war hero. No one was granted that audience. Zuse's identity wasn't something Castor could risk. Instead, he gave them the merest glimmer of hope. It was the only bit of aid he gave anyone anymore.


	3. Money

It was entirely possible to argue that Sam Flynn was among the richest young men on the planet. The single largest stockholder of the single largest electronics corporation in the nation, monetarily, the orphaned son of Kevin Flynn was set. Therefore it was beyond Alan's understanding as to why his godchild chose to live in what amounted to a garage under a bridge.

"You could buy a house. You don't have to live in the city. Move to the country or something."

"Thanks, but no."

"Well, what about your grandparent's old house? You still have the deed, don't you?"

"Sold it."

Alan ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Well, it can't be the money that put you in this dump,so what is it."

Sam feigned a wounded expression as he flopped into a chair with a can of beer. "I like this dump. It's homey."

"Homeless seems more accurate." Alan sighed. "Look, I'm not here to tell you what to do-"

"Then please stop."

"But you can't hide out here forever."

Sam cracked the can open and held it up in mockery of a toast. "Bet you I can."

Before he could drink to it Alan snatched the can from his hands. "Where did you get this?" he demanded. "You're nineteen!"

Sam grinned. "It turns out a couple hundred bucks can buy you a pretty quality fake ID."

Alan sighed and set the can down. "What exactly do you hope to accomplish with all this?"

The boy shrugged. "I'm... taking myself off the grid, so to speak."

The old programmer shook his head. "Fine. Just promise me if you get into trouble, call me."

"Sure thing."

Alan merely shook his head again and left. He would never understand that boy.


	4. Hands

Alan was a man whose entire livelihood depended on his hands. This is true for most people, but especially for a programmer. Alan spent hours feeding lines of coding into his computer, and even then, it rarely worked on the first run. Or the second, or the third, for that matter.

Kevin didn't seem to have this difficulty. His programs were often flawless, perfect in less than half the time it took Alan to write them. He couldn't help but envy his gifted friend- How did he do it?

One day, he mustered the courage to ask him. Kevin grinned, and told him to stop by the old arcade. That was the first time Alan entered the grid. He had been shocked, amazed. Kevin took him immediately to an empty space, where the only things around were the smooth black tiles and endless black skies.

"It's really simple. You do this." Kevin waved his hands around theatrically. Alan was sure that part was less necessary than expected. Kevin then pressed his palms to the ground and paused, his eyes closed and focused. Alan suddenly felt very awkward, as though he had wandered into a sacred ceremony.

Then, something began to rise. Just before Kevin's fingertips, Alan saw a man rising slowly from the ground, phasing through like a ghost or that girl from the mutant comics Kevin's son liked to read.

**"**Your name is Tag." Kevin said authoritively. "You are a tour guide."

"Am I?" The man said, puzzled.

"Yup. How about you show us around?"

The man suddenly seemed to snap into focus. "Of course. Right this way, please."

Alan stared, dumbfounded. Kevin slid an arm around his friend's shoulder. "Don't worry. I just figured you'd like to look around before we settled down to this. I'll give you a better demonstration when we're done."

The Grid was beautiful, or at least, Alan thought so. Still, he couldn't help but feel out of place there, unlike Kevin, who conversed and mingled with programs as though he were more pixels than flesh. And despite Kevin's insistence otherwise, Alan never got the hang of just summoning programs. It just didn't seem to work for him. Kevin did it with such ease, Alan felt ashamed to even call himself user when he entered the Grid.

Alan made a living with his hands. But sometimes, he couldn't help but wonder if there was something wrong with them.


	5. Lights

**Author's Notes:** And back to Castor! I do love that pasty homo. At one point this was going to be about Lightcycles but then I forgot. I also couldn't remember the proper way they name their time so I made something up. Do forgive me if I'm wrong.

* * *

"It's ah, it's a bit dark, don't you think?"

"Most clubs are, sir."

"Well, we aren't most clubs, are we?" Castor ran a hand along the counter. It was going to make an excellent bare. "Or at least, we won't be."

"What are you saying?" The contractor said in a bored tone.

"Lights!" Castor threw his arms out dramatically. "I'm saying we need lights! Bright lights! White lights! This club is one of the highest points in the city, I want it to shine like the star of Bethlehem."

"The what?"

"Never mind." Castor sighed. "We need lights, where can we get them?"

"I can have some in a few minicycles."

"Excellent!" Castor allowed himself a genuine smile, not the false one he'd had on for ages. It was time to step out of hiding-shadowy places were never his style anyway and besides, that's where everyone looked for fugitives. No, the interpreter program had done a great deal of thinking, and the conclusion he'd come to was that the best place to hide was out in the open. He'd had some help, of course- he had connections left over from the days when he was one. He'd be one again, soon enough. He had plans for this club, and the future was looking bright.


	6. Trick

**Author's Note:** I imagine Sam to be around fifteen or something here. Young.

* * *

Sam could feel the blood pounding through his veins as he tore down the hall, trying every available door, feverishly hoping one would be unlocked. A knob gave way and he flung himself into a closet, snuggling into the back behind the mops and buckets. He held his breath as a score of footfalls sounded outside the door. Not a one of them opened the door to his hide-away. After two more minutes his heart quieted to a manageable tone, and Flynn's son ventured to open the door again.

The hallway was deserted- the boy took only a moment to shut the door and formulate a loose plan before taking off in the direction he came. He kept glancing over his shoulder feverishly- Were those pursuers or merely the echo of his own footsteps? It was as he was glancing over his shoulder that he rounded a corner and crashed.

His speed bump fell to the ground with a yelp and a painful sounding cough as Sam tumbled on top of him.

"What in the- Sam, what are you doing?"

Sam smiled sheepishly and rolled off his surrogate father. "Nothing."

"I know that face." Alan got to his feet carefully. "That's your lying face."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is." the programmer adjusted his glasses, which had been knocked slightly askew. "Sam, what did you do?"

Sam tried to pull an innocent face- it had worked before. "Nothing, really."

Alan opened his mouth to argue again, but shook his head. "It's late." he finally said. "Let's get you home."

Sam followed obediently. It wasn't until Alan was driving away in his little station wagon that he caught a glimpse of the Encom building in his rearview mirror.

There, drawn by the flickering lights of office windows, was a massive, rather phallic image stretching across the upper stories. Alan shot a disapproving look at Sam, who whistled and smiled back. Alan sighed and shook his head, although inwardly he smirked. In the end, he supposed, it was a rather clever trick.


	7. Suspicion

He had to know. There was no way he couldn't. It was extremely difficult for a program to change its interface, and the only man capable of helping had vanished into the dark parts of the Grid. Clu knew Zuse's face- the two programs had been at odds for cycles, there was no way he couldn't. The newly anointed dictator had even shown up personally to watch his fallen foe struggle for survival in the Games, the punishment of choice for traitors to the Grid.

The program had survived, of course, but Zuse did not. Cycles of killing his former allies had taken their toll, and somewhere in the arena the ISO's champion had vanished, replaced instead by an unsteady wreck of an interpreter who could barely walk the street without wincing at the sound of a lightcycle. It would be cycles still before the End of Line club would be erected above the city, a beacon to replace the glow of Flynn's portal.

Those who had once known Zuse were few and far between- he was a myth in his own time, although there were whispers that his brother had opened the new club, and maybe, just maybe, with the proper prodding, he could be convinced to grant them an audience with the legendary program.

It was because of these rumors that Clu even entered the club that night. He was not fond of public appearances- even his beloved Games were viewed behind tinted glass. He was a private program, and his appearance sent a wave of quiet across the club.

Clu made no announcement, gave no explanation for his arrival, but chose to approach the bar and order a drink. Glass in hand, he searched the crowd. He found his prey watching him from floating stairs.

"Am I to assume you are the host of this club?"

"I am. And you, no doubt, are Clu. It is an honor." the pale host bowed deeply.

"I'm sure." Clu sipped his drink. "How have things been, Zuse."

The program didn't even wince at the accusation. "You are mistaken. I am Castor. Zuse, however regrettably, was a relative."

"A brother."

"We were merely programmed by the same user- nothing more."

"I see." Clu nodded slowly. "And I understand you can arrange a meeting with him?"

Castor laughed. "That, I'm afraid, is where your rumors grow fantastic. I do not know where he is, and I can't very well plan a meeting with someone I can't even locate."

"Of course." Clu took a deep drought of his drink. "In that case, I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"Think nothing of it." The program made a gesture as though brushing the apology aside. "And please, do drop by whenever it catches your fancy."

"I'll do that." Clu handed the now empty glass to the host. "Take care of this for me, won't you Zuse?"

"Castor." he corrected.

Clu smirked. "Of course." The dictator turned and walked away, summoning the guards that accompanied him and vanishing into the elevator.

He had to know. There was no doubt about it. It was very difficult for a program to change its interface, and a program like Clu could never forget one that crossed him.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I'm thinking I'd like to do a longer story discussing Zuse immediately following the Purge, and how he rebuilt himself into Castor. The downfall of heroes _fascinates _me.


	8. Book

Clu's brows furrowed as he inspected the heavy block that had been given to him. "What is it?"

"It's a book." Kevin was still grinning.

"That is not a helpful answer." Clu turned it over and scanned the back.

"You read it." Sensing that his program was still not quite understanding the concept, he continued "It's something we have in the User world. See, you open it," Kevin demonstrated to a suddenly surprised program,. "and you read these words, and they tell you stories, or give you instructions, or relate history, or anything you can write down. Some even have pictures."

Clu turned the pages slowly, squinting at the user alphabet. He could read it, of course, although he much preferred the language of the Grid- functions and variables that sang in his very pixels, the language embedded in his very core, that he could understand almost without thinking. User language though, seemed to be little more than jumbled and arbitrary symbolism. "And you must turn every page?"

"Yes."

"And every page is different?"

"Yes."

"What is this book about?"

"Psychology. You said you wanted to understand how users think- so here you go!"

"And if I 'read' this, then I will understand everything about psychology and how users think?"

"Well no, there's quite a bit more too it then that. This is only a basic-level book. For beginners."

Clu wrinkled his nose in distaste at being called a "beginner", and shook his head. He was becoming more and more displeased with the notion than before he had been given the book. "How long will it take me to read?"

"Depends. Could be an hour, could be a few cycles."

Unable to hide a grimace, the program closed the book. "If you ask me, the whole thing seems terribly inefficient. There must be a way to improve it."

"Not yet there isn't."

"Then I will make a way." Clu tucked the book under his arm. "Forgive me for saying this, but if it really takes so long to learn something, it is nothing short of a miracle that you users learn anything at all."


End file.
